I was an upstart food writer in the 1980s when I chanced upon Woody, whom I heard invented the Texas braggart personality type. I’d spent years judging chili championships after trying to win them, so I figured I had something to learn from him.

Cornelius Vanderbilt Wood Jr. backed up his big brag with astonishing chili. That, combined with his understanding of blitzkrieg marketing, made him the world champion.

The man Walt hated

You could not deny Woody’s indelible life’s work. He was an early aeronautical engineer. Then he became a building developer, then a developer of whole communities.

Woody claimed he was the guy who spotted Anaheim as the place for Disneyland. He helped design the park, but his boast as the “Master Builder of Disneyland” angered Walt Disney to the point of a lawsuit. Woody lost. There are Disneyland execs to this day who call him a “con man.”

Still, he parlayed the better side of his reputation into an engineering outfit that designed struggling amusement parks, the most notable (and only surviving one) being Six Flags Over Texas in Arlington. Some of his parks closed within a few weeks of opening. They lacked the Disney magic.

Woody’s biggest deal was helping design Lake Havasu City, the planned retirement community in Arizona. They named the swimming pool after him.

In typical Woody fashion, the original London Bridge was negotiated for $2.5 million. They marked every stone and reassembled them at Havasu, a classic PR stunt that gains the community reams of news copy to this day.

King Chili

Woody constantly fought boredom. So many magic mountains scaled, so little personal PR. Not a word of him is mentioned in any official Disney literature.

Then he chanced upon a guy who won a chili championship, once again stirring the flames of opportunity. This set Woody on his quest for the world’s greatest chili.

First, Woody and race-car designer Carroll Shelby invented the International Chili Society, giving him a championship to pursue. He went about his recipe in a strange way, with Hollywood starlets.

In 1969, Woody arrived at the Texas cookoff with a huge pot of his red chili escorted by leggy girls and wearing a king’s robe and crown described as “almost popelike.” He brought a boisterous rooting section wearing his T-shirts. Then came his “spice chest,” an outlandishly fiendish trunk allegedly brimming with his secret blends.

You have to realize that chili championships up to this moment had been sedate affairs attracting introverts who thought only the chili mattered. Winners earned barely a mention in the media. Woody taught them showmanship, which continues today at chili cookoffs. Cable channels actually cover them.

(I forgot the C.V. Wood Electronic Chili Gauge. It had knobs and dials for temperature, altitude and humidity. When all were right, a siren went off and “Excellent” flashed on its screen. I know, give me a break.)

Anyway, the Panhandle Blowhard from Amarillo overwhelmed everybody even before the judging. They could not deny him. No surprise, Cornelius Vanderbilt Wood, Jr., added World Champion Chef de Chili to his résumé.

His (non)secrets revealed

Talking to Woody, you must endure his long pedigree. Half-way through, you’re thinking “this is impossible.” Then he serves up the chili portion of his life, and everything seems confirmed. He was a certified genius of the red stuff.

Unlike other chili champs, he was generous with his recipe. Up to this time, championship chili recipes were state secrets.

He’d laugh, “I might as well give it to you; you’re going to steal it anyway.”

You get about halfway through his Texas-beanless recipe when you realize it’s another Woodinistic stunt. The 22-ingredient groaner is totally impossible. A brief overview: three pounds of chicken, a pound of beef suet, four pounds of flank steak, five pounds of pork chops, one pound of Jack cheese and two green peppers “cut exactly into three-eighths-inch pieces.” Etc.

And one dash of Tabasco sauce. No more. All this, for 12 Texans and 50 ordinary people.

Before you try it, note it requires more than 24 hours, a major chest of spices and, most importantly, a Wood Electronic Chili Gauge. Woody’s recipe had built-in security. Nobody but he had that magical gauge.

Fame soon found him. He landed a bit part in the B-movie “Miami Supercops.” Oh well, he tried.

Woody was fond of psychics. At least they believed he “was like a son to Walt Disney.” He died of lung cancer in 1992. His chili society survives him, holding more than 200 cookoffs a year nationwide, raising millions for charity. This year’s sanctioned contest is Oct. 1-3 in Manchester, N.H.

At least this part of his life — and his visage on a commemorative Jim Beam whiskey bottle — is Undeniabull.

Contact Jim Hillibish at jim.hillibish@cantonrep.com.

HOW TO JUDGE CHILI

You can, and should, judge your own chili. The pro judges look for something called “distinct flavor layers.” Common household chili often lacks these, stuck in a single flavor, the tomato sauce. Each layer, to a chili head, propels the chili to new levels of immortality.

Basically, there are three layers: spice, spice and spice. A great chili offers a number of spice points, each one apparent in every spoonful. Your average champ chili chefs exercise their own taste buds constantly during cooking, adjusting these spice points.

It’s a tough dish because, once the chili is served, the flavors will have melded. This is why day-old chili is coveted and first-day chili tastes overblown.

CHILI SPICES

Of course, chili powder (ground dried red peppers) is the most common. Amazingly, you rarely will find it in championship chili. It’s almost too obvious. Recently chipotle powder has become popular. Here the peppers are smoke dried.

The most commonly used hot peppers (in rising order of heat) include mild poblano, ancho, jalapeño, Anaheim, tabasco, Thai and torrid habanero.

THE COLORS

Despite Northern opinion, chili comes in colors beyond tomato red. Green, or verde, chili is made from tomatillos and unripened tomatoes. White chili is Great Northern or canelli white beans, chicken breast and chicken broth. Substitute the tomato sauce in your personal recipe with the broth and you’re close.

DOMESTICATION

Chili con carne means “with meat,” not “with beans.” This has been shortened in the North to “chili.” You would not dare serve bean chili to a Texan. Their renowned chili basically is a plate of meat with a breath of tomato sauce, plus enough hot peppers to blow your ears off.

White chili is big in the prairie states. Chili with beans is the norm in the Midwest and East. Southerners use dried beans; the Yankees, canned kidneys.

Chili is constantly evolving in the West, the main influences being Latin American and Asiatic. Californians experiment with vegetarian varieties, usually winding up with more of a vegetable stew than a real chili. Avocado garnishes?

The method of delivery depends on your locale. In the East and Midwest, chili eateries are called joints. In the South, they are “chili parlors.” In Texas, “street chili” is shilled by “chili queens” armed with soda crackers.

Chili can be a main course by itself or a sauce over something bland. In the North, it’s usually “naked.” In the Midwest (especially Cincinnati), it comes with spaghetti or hot dogs. In the South, it’s over rice.